The Tank Twelve Electric Sandwich Disco
by Bagatelle
Summary: Lust. Acceptance. Sex. Deterioration. Murder. Madness. Thus is the journey of the mind when in Disco.:::StanIke, StanKyle SLASH


…Skeet skeet skeet. :3

It's been ages, hasn't it? Sorry…difficulties…eheheh…

But I've been working at it, so don't worry. And no, TAT is not out of my mind at _all_. I just have a little bit of a block on it at the moment, so I did this to flush the system and get back into my fanfiction groove.

…This is different from my usual stuff, just a warning, guys. Not the mushy love-goo that I usually do. A lot of this is my own pent-up teenage angst coming out, so…a heads up. If it's dark and people seem out of character, I'm sorry.

And by the way. The title has no deep significance of any kind. It just sounds COOL. XD

…But anyway, the major point I'm trying to make is that this has been way past due for much too long. This little blurb is of course for everyone, but it's especially dedicated to **Qindarka**, who always supports me, and who is always there to lend a kind word and a squeal of joy in regards to everything I do. To **Sofa King Danny**, who showers me with endless love and concern that I'm still trying to find out what I've done to deserve. To **KyleBroflovskiFan**, who shares my love of ze Mole to an insane extent, and who can always entertain me on AIM. To **Oyaji291**, who is eternally a shining light in my dark days: a great editor, and an even better friend. To **Twitchable Wiz**, one of my newest friends: a great guy, a wonderful new partner in crime. And finally, this is for **californianwhohatescalifornia**, better known to her friends and fans as **Bobby**, because she freakin' _rules._ That girl's gonna topple Stephen King someday, I swear to god.

* * *

The Tank Twelve Electric Sandwich Disco  
A fanfiction by Bagatelle 

…I've always thought that hands are the most beautiful part of the human body. I'm not sure what it is, but they've always just made me sigh in wonder, and they really make me appreciate the fact that I myself am human.

Maybe it's because hands are used for so much, but if it is, I couldn't tell you. I mean, they stimulate so much in life; they hold pencils and books and hammers and other hands. They create and destroy and manipulate and comfort. Hands are lovely. Hands are insanely romantic. The gentle caress of someone's fingertips can tell you so much more about a person than anything else ever could. The way they bite their nails or drum their knuckles on their desk can tell you limitless things about their personality.

Why am I talking about hands, you ask? Because that's where this all starts.

With his hands.

…His hands—so rough and virile, shaped to masculine perfection from years of football and tinkering in the garage with his father on weekends—catching my neck and reaching along the curve of my jaw. Accepting me: needing me. Tilting my face upward and gently meeting my lips. His were soft, smooth and dry against my own, and yet somehow, the intimate contact created a spark of lightning that flared and became an entire electric current, making me press harder into him, longing for depth to grace our closeness. His hands measured my body and pulled me hard into his hips, and I felt myself let go somehow and become a part of him: held into him by his fingertips, held into his Flow. I shuddered against the cosmic feel of it all, overwhelmed by the pleasures it provided me.

_Stan Marsh. Oh my God._

He was Ike's playmate—Ike's keeper—but I didn't care. I wanted him. I had wanted him for so fucking long. And now finally, _he_ wanted _me_ instead of my brother.

_Hell yes._

He flung me onto my bed and sank his teeth into my tongue, his hands clutching at my waist, pulling my entire body into his Flow and absorbing me in the harsh electricity of his lips. I groaned, and his hands worked more magic on me: tore off my pants, held my body steady. Minutes passed, and we writhed together on my bed, his pants unzipped, mine forgotten on the floor, ten thousand volts racing through our veins. He stopped once to stare at me when I whimpered his name softly, wondering aloud.

"…Stan, what do you want…out of this…?" I breathed. He threw his head back, raven locks billowing in our radiation, and his eyes were like the sun.

"What do _you_ want?" he asked back, stronger, more certain. My body convulsed.

"…I want you to…keep it this way," I breathed, staring up at him with wild eyes, tenderly brushing a piece of hair behind his ear. "And I don't want you…to be tempted to go back…"

He watched me, his eyes cold. I shuddered, a smile spreading across my hot lips.

"Stan…I want you to kill my brother."

…He ground his teeth, pressed his cheek into my pale neck, and made me scream his name.

* * *

…_Three weeks later…_

"Come on, Kyle," Stan said, extending his long, gloved fingers toward me. "It's just a little further. You can't come all the way out here and then chicken out."

"Yes I can, dude," I growled, folding my arms defensively across my chest. "Just watch me." Across the stream, my brother laughed at me, his cheeks pink in the slit of uncovered flesh between his scarf and hat. The sound of his giggling made Stan smile, like it always did.

"You're being a pussy, Kyle. Even Ike knows it," my best friend chuckled.

"Yeah," Ike said brightly, his brown eyes sparkling, shifting from me to Stan suddenly. He was extremely pleased that Stan had acknowledged him in that playful way (as he always was), and though I knew precisely why—it had everything to do with why we were out here in the first place, after all—I tried to push those thoughts away, focusing instead on the dilemma at hand. I stared at the ice uneasily.

"It'll break," I sighed. "I'm not going to get fucking pneumonia for the sake of _this_, Stan. This is gay, anyway. Just give me ten minutes and I'll find a log or something—"

"Just shut up and cross, Kyle," Ike demanded indignantly, his eyes narrowing in outrage. I glared back at him, sibling hatred smoldering in the air between us, and Stan cleared his throat, shifting his weight in the snow beside the little traitorous mutant. I looked at Stan instead, my green eyes angry.

"Get your ass over here," he hissed, pointing to the ground on his side of the stream, his voice full of quiet disgust that made my chest burn. "_You_ wanted to come. _You're_ the one who suggested this."

"Yeah, _I_ didn't even _want_ you," Ike spat. Stan's lips twitched and his fingers grimaced into a fist at his hip.

"Shut up, brat," he snarled, his dark eyes flitting to my brother's face for a moment. Ike backed down, his eyes falling, hurt obvious in his guise. He seemed to shrink under Stan's biting words, and I reveled in this for a second before I managed to gather enough courage to make a run for it across the ice. It cracked once (or maybe it was just in my head) but I made it to the other side safely, panting.

Stan's mouth curved upward into a satisfied smirk, his fingers pushing wild black hair behind his ear. There was a secret in his eyes that I shared with him, and it made me feel so much better to have that leverage. "Let's go," he murmured, jamming his hands into his pockets. He looked my face over once, his eyes lingering on my neck for a strange half-instant before he turned around and started deeper into the woods, his hiking boots crunching in yesterday's crisp snow. Ike gave me a loathsome look, his lips pursed into a thin, self-criticizing line, tears welling around the bottom rims of his eyes. I turned away from him and followed Stan, walking faster than him and leaving him behind. His eleven-year-old's legs were too short to keep up with us, but I knew he wouldn't sink so low as to ask us to wait for him, and I was glad for it.

His breathing grew more and more strained the deeper into the woods we walked, and I could tell when he started crying. Stan, two feet ahead of me, heard it too, though he did nothing to acknowledge it. This was how they played, I knew: I had been watching them for the past few months, secretly jealous, secretly yearning, for a reason I hadn't been able to explain to myself until three weeks ago. Ike seemed so hurt by it all, and yet, he couldn't help himself: he always came back to Stan, pulled by some kind of magnet, back to their games and the horrible, wonderfully twisted things that Stan did to him. And now I, too, had felt their allure, and I couldn't get enough of them, either.

But Ike was in the way, blocking my path to the source.

So there was no other option: he would simply have to go.

…Stan Marsh had undergone some kind of transformation when he had become a teenager. He changed from a good, smart, all-around perfect American Boy into…something that was nearly inexplicable. He became dark, and bizarrely handsome, constantly full of mystique and power…and ever since those first few days, everyone had wanted a piece of the action. Girls were all over him: even some guys seemed affected by him. Aside from Ike and myself, a few others included Kenny, Butters, Pip…and even Tweek. It was like Stan had found something that had eluded the rest of us, and the attraction that he exuded, being the only one with it—with the electricity that he had, with control of his Flow and the secret of dance—was damn near irresistible.

But for the longest time, he hadn't wanted _anyone_. No one was good enough to feel his power. It had been so frustrating to all of us. And then five months ago, he had made it worse for everyone—especially me—by choosing Ike: shy little Ike Broflovski, who had never even thought about sensuality before in his life. Therein, I suppose, lie his allure. He had been _innocent._ For months, Ike had been Stan's little pet: his favorite, his _chosen one._

When Stan slept over, he would slink out of my room late at night and spend an hour or so in my brother's room, instead, and no matter how hard I tried to ignore it, I could hear Ike's soft, pleasured cries through the thin plaster wall that separated us. When Stan and I went to the movies, Ike came, too, cuddled in the seat next to my best friend, pulling Stan's hand into his lap. When we drove up the mountainside and ate lunch beneath the summer sun, Ike went, too, and he and Stan would wander off into the woods for hours. Sometimes Ike would come back sobbing, nursing some invisible wound, and Stan's eyes would be dark and cloudy, full of thought. But it was times like _those_ when I knew they had shared something deeper than sex: the thing that I didn't understand, the thing I craved knowledge of.

And finally, I _had_ that knowledge.

He had shared it with me three weeks ago, when we had first agreed that he was going to give _me_ a chance to be his pet. I was ecstatic: I could hardly wait for my brother's impending death. But Stan was, as usual, toying with me as we wandered into the woods, making me squirm by favoring my brother right in front of me. He claimed it was to keep up appearances, but I knew the true reason. He knew that it made me want him even more.

He was already beginning his games.

…He looked over his shoulder as we passed the threshold of a clearing, slowing down and then stopping in the middle of the untainted snow. Ike stumbled in behind me twenty seconds later, chewing holes in his lips, angry and humiliated tears tracing pathways down his pudgy cheeks. He tore his hat off and sniffled pitifully. Stan sighed and caught his arm when he tripped, and with one swift, fluid motion, he pulled my brother into his chest and gently stroked his hair. Ike's hands clung to Stan's jacket as he sobbed, and I felt myself tense beside them: Stan's eyes danced with pleasure at the sight of my envy. I averted my eyes to Ike's pale green stocking cap, sitting lifeless in the snow at his feet.

"Hush," Stan whispered, leaning down and pressing pale lips into my brother's scalp, watching me the whole time. Ike shivered, though not because he was cold. "We were going to wait for you, baby. Weren't we, Kyle? Yes…you're all right. Come on. We're almost there. Just another half-mile or so. You can do it."

Ike hiccuped, and I saw him close his eyes into Stan's blue sweater, exposed beneath the unzipped tan leather jacket. My ears flushed, my fingers flexed, noticing how the knitted fabric was carefully hugging the subtle curves of his muscular chest. "…I kuh-can't, Stan, I'm too t-tired…" Ike whined.

Stan's hands moved fast, like lightning: traced the curve of Ike's jaw, his thumb and forefinger tilting his chin up. I heard the sharp intake of breath on Ike's part and knew, as did he, what Stan would do next. Stan smiled that immortal smile at him and gingerly leaned forward, kissing my brother's trembling lips in that dark, sensual way that he did everything. Ike let out a quiet whimper of pleasure and Stan's arms wrapped around his body—Ike was so tiny and helpless in comparison to Stan—in a tender embrace. My legs shook beneath me, lusting to trade places with my little brother, and I had to knead my own hands into each other to distract myself. Stan's eyes flashed to me, mocking me, as he pulled away from my dazzled sibling.

"…Then I'll carry you," he whispered, brushing hair out of Ike's face. My brother's eyes were wide and shining, affected by some insane drug that I so deeply understood, his cheeks flushed with the knowledge of Stan's secret. I watched my best friend turn around and spread his legs: watched his hands reach back and wait for Ike to climb on. Ike looked at me, saw my anger, and reached his arms around Stan's neck, wrapping his legs around that muscular abdomen. Stan's elbows locked around his knees and he held Ike so easily, so close to him, smiling at me and picking up his cargo's hat before he started off into the woods again. Ike watched me and pressed his face into Stan's shoulder, breathing excited breaths into his stallion's ear. I shuffled madly along beside them, hating Ike. I couldn't wait for what was going to happen.

As we walked, me at their side, Ike kept staring at me, his eyes swimming with watery hatred. _I saw the way you looked at him_, he was saying to me. _And I saw the way he looked back. Stay the fuck away, Kyle._ I ignored him as best I could, wondering if I should have just killed him myself. I listed various scenarios in my head. Eventually he turned away from me, and Stan started singing some made-up song to him to keep him calm. I listened in and loved the breathy sound of his words, hoping that they were secretly being sung to me, instead.

…It took less time than I had expected before we broke through the boundary of trees again and Stan gently nudged my shoulder, granting me a whisper of:

"_Look, Kyle._"

I obeyed. It was an amazing spectacle: one that I honestly hadn't expected. It was a vast, rolling wasteland of white: pure white, as far as the eye could see. A blank canvas of pure, flat snow. The clouds seemed to touch the earth on the horizon, and it was all so eerily silent, as if we had stepped into an unfinished painting. It was everything and it was nothing at the same time. Beauty in its most sincere form.

Stan beamed and gently set Ike down, whispering something in his ear that made his cheeks flush before walking stiff-kneed off into the snow. I watched Stan, intrigued and genuinely stunned when he flung his jacket off: it landed several feet away from him, a few flakes of snow creeping up over its sleeves, and he kept walking. He crossed his arms and grabbed his sweater, pulling it up over his head. His shirt came off with it, and he tossed it aside, as well, before he turned around and flashed a smile at us, wind whipping his hair around.

"…Well?" he asked quietly. I stared at him, though more because of how perfectly sculpted he was than anything else. Beside me, Ike fumbled with his coat and shirt, throwing them down into a nervous pile and walking, mesmerized, over to Stan, who was waiting with casually open arms. I looked at Ike: studied the marks decorating his body, the sour yellow bruises and the sweet violet ones, the cuts and the scratches and—I just took note—the way he limped. My gaze met Stan's for a split-second, aggravated, though for such strange reasons.

_You and your fucking games_, my eyes said, narrowed and irritated. He knew how badly I wanted to just be done with it.

_Let me have my fun…it'll be over soon enough_, his gaze retorted, flashing.

He laughed, and Ike gained courage, a grin breaking his lips and giving him the strength to run. He leapt into Stan's arms and Stan twirled him, pulling him close and tickling him, making him giggle happily. Then he set Ike in the snow and knelt down in front of him, his face turning somehow more serious as he slid his hands over my brother's waist and held him still, leaning forward and trailing affectionate kisses around his bruised navel. Stan's tongue ran under the waistband of my brother's pants, and I saw Ike's knees buckle, his thin hands reaching out to steady himself against Stan's shoulders. Stan, chuckling, locked his arms around Ike's legs and pushed him backward. They both fell into the snow, triggering a cry of surprise from Ike, who seemed to realize only then how cold the snow really was. Stan purred and climbed on top of him, teased his bruised skin with his fingertips, and made him gasp.

I watched coldly as they kissed. As Stan groaned and gently massaged the groin of my brother's jeans with his own. Ike shuddered and opened his mouth against Stan's lips, and Stan's tongue dove into him, his fingers tracing up the smaller body and interlocking with Ike's curly hair. My brother moaned and arched his back, running his hands along Stan's spine, and Stan pulled his head away from Ike's, staring perfectly down at him.

"…Oh, my little angel," he breathed, smiling. And with one swift, fluid motion, he jerked Ike's head back, breaking his neck.

He didn't even have a chance to scream.

Ike fell limp in his hands, passive, as always. A few seconds passed. Then—smooth, still flawless—Stan leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Ike's throat, running his fingers one final time over the broken flesh, and he sighed.

Then his eyes turned back to me, glistening, brilliant. I stared back at him, unblinking: watching as he got to his feet and stepped tentatively over my brother's corpse, walking catlike to face me. After a brief moment of consideration, his hands splayed easily over my chest, the fingers tugging angrily at the zipper of my jacket. He was mad at me because I hadn't undressed myself. But I let him throw my coat away and peel my tee shirt off, knowing that it was always best to let him do it himself: he was, after all, the only one who could do it _right_.

The cold made my nipples harden. I watched him as his fingers curved around my scarred ribs, locking his arms around me and pulling our bodies into one another. His palms stroked my neck and gently urged my jaw to ease up, to acquaint our lips. I opened my mouth and his tongue flirted with mine, his fingernails trailing over the healed pink wounds he had made on my body three weeks ago. I whimpered in sultry desire and rubbed my crotch into his.

He pulled away from my face briefly, his wild eyes staring deeply into mine, hypnotizing me. I felt weakened, yet empowered at the same time. "…Are you happy?" he breathed, sounding pissed for some reason I didn't grasp. I nodded, and his fingers pulled delicately at a curl of red hair hanging in front of my eyes. My gaze ran over his neck and stopped cold. There were a few fading hickeys on the base of his throat: glaring imperfections that I knew would take longer to fade than the rest of it would. I forced myself to forget them.

"…Yes, I'm happy," I breathed, glad to be alone with him. I was still amazed by the serenity of the field: marveling at how Ike's death didn't seem to disrupt its majesty at all. In fact…his shirtless body, lying there with its neck at that unreal angle, the cheeks still distantly flushed and the eyelids half-closed…that one complex prop seemed to add a sort of picturesque feeling to the whole scene: a feeling that I very much enjoyed. Stan's angelic eyes gleamed, and I pressed my forehead into his, tasting his breath.

"Good," he murmured, reaching one hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a short knife. His free hand found my bare arm and wrapped long, perfect fingers harshly around it, guiding the flesh into the biting blade. I closed my eyes and he kissed me.

…He danced with me, and I forgot about Ike. I forgot about the way that they had looked at each other, knowing that now, _I_ was the one who would receive those teasing stares. _I_ was the one who would feel that passion and bear those marks. And _I_ was the one who would know Stan's secrets.

The _only_ one.

* * *

Stan Marsh was a vampire. 

Or at least something _like_ it, in many senses of the word. The way he emanated sexuality was one thing: his astounding grace and power were others. He seemed to float through life with bizarre ease, as if he controlled every aspect of his existence, and he could therefore do as he pleased without fear of consequence.

…He also drank blood, though his teeth were too nervous to break the skin. That was the purpose of the pocketknife. That had also been the purpose of my brother: to provide sustenance. Now it was _my_ purpose. I had been selected to go under the knife, and I was glad to do it. I wasn't sure if it gave him sexual thrill to add crimson to the depths of the fire, or if it truly _did_ keep him sane and alive, but whatever it was, I didn't care, because for whatever reason, he refused to drain me of all my life.

He _needed_ me.

…He gave things meaning, and it was exhilarating to be important to him in such an intimate way. Because he was so perfect…half of the town naturally craved to be as close to him as I now was.

He had a thing for Jewish blood, though…

…I stood in the shower that night, pressing fingers into my numb skin, watching pink run down my fingers, drip, and trickle into the drain, and I wondered if people would notice the change in arrangements. I wondered if they would suspect what we had done. I dug my nails into the fresh cuts, gasping quietly, recalling the feeling of the blade: his tongue on my arm, licking the blood from my skin like an animal.

He had promised that no one would ever find out. And I, needing security, believed him.

* * *

…It was three days after we had disposed of Ike, and we were at school, when I was able to witness even more of his power. Though it didn't come from _him_, directly: it came from an old friend of his, a raven-haired damsel, a princess in her own rite, watching me intently as I sat with my legs spread whorishly beside him at lunch. I stared back at her once I felt her eyes on me, and there was something in her face that told me quite bluntly that she was suspicious. 

I told Stan that I was going to the bathroom, and he took his hand off of my inner thigh and let me go, turning to Kenny and listening politely to a story about _his_ latest victim. I got up and walked out of the cafeteria, leaning against the brick wall and waiting for her. She joined me immediately, her blue eyes full of watery weakness. I stared at her and saw, much to my surprise, his ten perfect fingers imprinted on her throat, the red-purple marks poorly hidden by her scarf. He had attempted to silence her…she _knew_, then, and in the darkest way.

A tremor wracked my body, and I struggled to ignore it, glaring at her. She looked so upset.

Like I gave half a shit.

"Kyle…he has _you_ now, doesn't he?" she whispered, wringing her fingers uneasily. The majestic glow of her schoolyard royalty seemed to fade as she gasped for stern breaths, sounding mousy and crude. "…You're…different, now. I can tell."

I sneered at her. She _didn't_ understand, no matter what she thought.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I asked angrily, my hands itching to add to the marks around her neck. Had he been trying to strangle her? It looked like it. I was proud of him. "Stop _looking_ at me. It's my business, Wendy."

"How can you _do_ this?" she asked back, her rose lips quivering, pained. I blinked and felt nothing for her, not wanting to: I was too enthralled and taken in by the security of his Flow to allow myself to be pulled out and denied its sanctity once again. Tears ran with careful precision down her cheeks. They were premeditated, in my mind.

"To _you_, you whore?" I snapped, despising her.

"To _yourself!_" she screamed, mascara waterfalls painting her porcelain face. "It's not the _same_ for you as it was for Ike! You're…you're _healthy_, Kyle! You have friends! _Please_, Kyle!" she reached forward and touched my arm. I flinched away when she touched the hidden wounds, shuddering in masochistic pleasure. "Please…make him stop it before it's too late for you!"

I gave her my coldest stare, and she was affected enough to back up a step, her eyes wide with disturbance. "How could you _ever_ know what I feel?" I asked, my voice more frozen than my eyes. "You don't understand _anything_ about what I need. This is my life, Wendy. I'm going to live it the way I want. I don't need bitches like you getting in my way."

"…You're an asshole, Kyle," she sobbed, wiping her face. "God…he's r-ruined you…and you were so s-sweet…"

She turned around and ran for the bathroom. Standing there in the hallway, alone, my eyes blanked and stared down at my own hands, registering nothing. She was lying. She was _jealous._ I thought of Stan, and the way he had been favoring me all week. Of course she was jealous. That was the only explanation. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall, feeling too dizzy to go back into the cafeteria. I struggled not to dig my fingers into the cuts: fought not to send the adrenaline rushing through my veins again. If she only knew what she had done…

…My body shook, and I craved the pain.

* * *

Sitting on his couch later that day, I neglected to tell him what Wendy and I had said to each other, for fear that if I had somehow said the wrong thing, he would deny me passage into his world. Leaning against him, his body felt cold against mine, but I still sensed the vague lightning inside of him. He was tense because of her, I knew it: he was fighting some kind of battle within himself, and he needed me to snap him out of it. I let myself revel in the joys of being his harlot and pulled his fingers into my mouth, sliding my head into his lap. I loved those depraved hands, yearning to feel them on my skin again, and he grinned down at me, accepting my invitation to dance. I allowed him to reclaim his godly tools and went limp against the cushions when he asked me. 

His knife found the tender skin on my abdomen, and the cuts bled desperately during the waltz: more than I had thought I _could_ bleed. I closed my eyes and didn't look, tears of ecstasy tracing my cheekbones as he kissed the crimson off of me and sent jolts of glorious pain lacing through my veins. It was such a relief: it felt to me as if he were punishing me for slipping with Wendy, and if that were so, then he would surely forgive me soon after.

…In that sense, the pain was more of a gift than the sex ever could have been.

* * *

…We danced so many times in that crazy static world of his. And never once did he touch my neck for longer than those few seconds in the beginning, when he caught my mind and pulled it into his through his mouth. But each time he _did_, I felt that memory of his fingers running delicately over Ike's throat come to the surface and swim, curiously, along the banks of my thoughts. I wondered, secretly, if it was because of how desolate his eyes had looked as he bid my brother farewell. Was he afraid that he would break and take me out, too? 

Risking so much, I queried once outside of our world about his feelings for Ike, and his eyes turned black and swirled with cold knowing, a grin shining—sweet silver poison—on the outside.

"It's all right," he cooed, running one knuckle tenderly along my Adam's apple. He looked deeply into my eyes, penetrating my very soul. I felt the static in my heart. "…Don't worry, Kyle. You're all that matters to me, now."

…I listened to him. I stopped worrying about Ike: abandoned any idea that Stan might still have feelings for him. And seasons passed without fail and Stan's beautiful hands stayed the same, needing my body to release, and my body needed his hands to feel redemption from the insanity of Real Life. To break the barriers of light and sound and find the sensual joy in what lie _beyond._ We waltzed in lightning and my skin ached for his teeth and his lips when we were apart.

People eventually stopped looking for Ike. They mourned his loss, had a brief reception to commemorate him, and life went on. And I was happy. Happy that I had claimed those flawless hands for my own, and that no one could do anything to stop it.

…But the damsel persisted.

She—Wendy—loathed me, and all that I had become at his mercy. She watched his hands when he caressed my legs during lunch, and when he gestured to me at football games, and guarded me in snowball fights. She watched me when I laughed at Kenny's jokes, sporting the wonderful mark of his passion on my face and my arms and my legs. I kept it in plain sight for her, because I knew how jealous it made her. How _angry_ it made her, because no one else noticed it _but_ her.

…And though I never told him, I was frightened because she had never gone away. He hadn't gotten rid of her, like he had gotten rid of Ike. He should have broken her neck when he had the chance. For Christ's sake, it had been a _joy_ when he had broken _Ike's_: a joy to _both_ of us. I loved that memory so dearly: the heat flashing in his gaze, the dissipation of the jealousy. Being met with the vision of that awkward angle of flesh and bone, and his _hands_. His hands, tilting Ike's head back carefully in consideration of something for just a moment before he let the body fall to the floor and he turned to me, instead. That one moment was all that it took for him to move on and find new inspiration…in _me_, his best friend, the only one who was _truly_ deserving. Surely it would be no different to break the neck of Wendy Testaburger than it had been to break the neck of Ike Broflovski, I thought to myself.

But I never brought it up in his presence, and we never spoke of it.

Life went on.

* * *

…Anger built in my gut, like food poisoning, raging and lustful to escape. It burned me inside and tore at my being, weakening me, throwing me down from my prime so I was no longer at my best when he wanted me most. I could sense him growing frustrated with me, as if my blood had lost its sweet flavor, and I saw his dark eyes scanning the faces of others during school, even while his fingers tested my skin. 

So I had to let it go.

In the sanctity of one late, accursed evening, I found her and set my demon free where his had faltered. Her eyes shone with fear for two seconds, and then all light vanished into midnight, freeing me from my despair. I smiled down at her. And in a haunting halo of moonlight, I dragged her coldly into the woods where my brother had perished eleven months ago, and I buried her beneath four feet of dirt and snow.

I lie in bed that night, far into the wee hours of the morning, smiling to myself despite the sound of my mother's weeping downstairs. Nothing stood in my way anymore. Nothing could make me feel regret or anger. All that remained now was the Flow, and its glamorous allure: its endless pull and its flawless security.

All that remained was the magic of the dance.

All that remained were his hands.

…Life—as it will—went on.

And even now, I am still his. He is still accepting, even though, a year and a half ago, I successfully destroyed his first love. In a way, a part of me thinks, it was my revenge: my vengeance, tasted for the sake of my sanity, which had long since been lost in the fog of desire. It doesn't matter to me, now. Nothing does, save him, and all that he gives me.

His hands still hold me, long into the night.

…They fight harder now, and there is often pain in his eyes, but they're still here when I crave them. And when he runs his fingers softly over my neck, I know that they'll _always_ be here, carrying me deep into the majestic Flow of his electric disco.


End file.
